


The Law of Averages

by perfectlystill



Category: Everwood
Genre: Father-Son Relationship, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-18
Updated: 2016-12-18
Packaged: 2018-09-09 09:42:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,926
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8886016
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/perfectlystill/pseuds/perfectlystill
Summary: As he sits at the kitchen table, a short story about some girl's birthday his dad printed out for him to read along with lined paper for him to write an essay on, Bright regrets every choice that got him here. Colin invited him to go to the movies, but his dad turned down the offer for him, and it's super lame. He scans the story, scribbles down a few sentences, makes himself a sandwich, and stews in how utterly lame this entire thing is.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [cyren2132](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cyren2132/gifts).



Bright never bothered too much with school. 

It wasn't that he didn't care - well, it kind of _was_ that he didn't care, but that's beside the point - it was that he never thought he should. It was never his thing, and it was always Amy's thing, and as long as he had football and basketball he didn't dwell on why Amy's quizzes always got prime fridge real estate and his never did. 

Colin was smart, and if Bright had known differently, he might have found it annoying. He might have found it annoying that Amy had dance _and_ school, but he had football _and_ basketball and no jealous predisposition. 

 

In fourth grade, he proudly tacks his own C+ geology quiz next to Amy's math quiz. He thinks the red of his own letter and the green of Amy's 'A' is like Christmas. He swings the fridge open, pours himself a glass of apple juice, and doesn't bother to fix it when his paper careens with the force of slamming the door shut. 

"What's this?" his father asks later, sliding the paper upright against the metal.

Bright swallows around the fistful of chips he's just shoved into his mouth. "Rocks."

"What?" His dad's eyebrows knit together, lips pursed. 

"Geology is rocks," Bright explains, curling his fingers around his sleeve and wiping some salt off his lips.

Harold sighs. "No, son, why is this on the refrigerator?" 

"Because I got a C- _plus_." He knows his dad is smart, but it seems pretty obvious. 

"And you're proud of this?" 

Bright frowns. His dad's voice does the same thing it does when he finds Bright watching late night cartoons on a Friday, or when he forgets to bring the glasses and bowls he's taken up to his room down for too long and suddenly there aren't any clean ones left. "I tried really hard."

"Well, we don't celebrate average in this household. It leads to laziness, which will turn you into a social degenerate." His father removes the quiz, clicking his tongue as he flips through it. He sets it down on the counter and straightens his cuffs. "I'm sure you'll do better next time." He pats Bright on the shoulder once, muttering something like: "Now, where did your mother get to."

Bright's shoulders sag and he bites a chip in half, feeling the salt crumble against his mouth, down his chin and onto his sweatshirt. He wipes it off roughly and then wipes at his eyes like he's going to cry. But he's not. Because boys don't cry. 

He doesn't tell his dad that he studied in his room for an hour the night before the quiz, wrote out s-e-d-i-m-e-n-t-a-r-y 10 times to make sure he'd spell it correctly, and that he normally gets C's, not C-pluses. So it's _above_ both his own average and what average technically means. And, if Amy is always getting A's, aren't all her A's average, and shouldn't none of them go on the refrigerator? He rolls his eyes and hops off the stool he'd pulled up to the counter, content to ask his mom if he can go to Colin's after dinner. 

 

His dad and Amy are bent over the kitchen table, index cards scattered around them, studying words for her vocabulary test. His dad helps Amy study a lot, which Bright thinks is absurd, considering Amy doesn't actually need the help. But ever since she started middle school, his dad keeps talking to her about her future and academia and ivy league universities. He talks to Bright about his future, too, and big 10 schools and football. 

"Hey, nerds," he greets, leaning over the table and eyeing the words briefly. Amy's got clean handwriting, but while he recognizes some of the words as, you know, _actual words_ , he mostly has no idea what any of them mean. 

"Go away," Amy says. Bright flicks at her arm, and she goes "Ow," despite the fact that Bright knows it didn't actually hurt.

"What are you doing?" His father asks, shuffling a stack of cards like he's getting ready to deal a poker game. 

"I'm going to shoot some hoops."

"It's getting a little late."

Bright looks outside, and the sky is a dull blue. The sun has set but it hasn't sunk in yet. "For like 30 minutes. I gotta practice my free throws." 

"Okay." Harold nods, and then lifts his arm, pretending to shoot a ball: "We can work on them this weekend, too." 

"Yeah, okay." Bright shakes his head and can't help but smile. He'd much rather whoop his dad's ass at one-on-one than have his father quiz him on words no one uses, anyway. Plus, his hand hurts just looking at all the note cards Amy wrote out and highlighted. "Bye, nerds."

 

Before signing up for high school classes next year, Mrs. Moore suggests Bright take a placement exam for AP English. 

He looks at her like she's gone insane. "Me?"

Her smile is small, and her eyes are kind, and she might be the best teacher Bright has ever had, and only partly because she's hot. "Yes. I think you'd do well with a bit more of a challenge."

Dinner that night is just his dad and him. His mom is with Amy at some sort of dance thing, and as Bright pushes the pasta around his plate - his father warmed it up in the oven, and the middle isn't cold, but it isn't hot, either - he mentions it: "Mrs. M wants me to take an English test."

"Isn't she your English teacher?" Harold raises an eyebrow. "Isn't her job to test your language skills?"

"No, I mean," Bright pauses to roll his eyes. "She think I might be AP English material."

"You?" 

Bright shrugs. "I guess." 

"I don't want you to get your hopes up too high, Bright, but." His father nods, a lift in his shoulders and neck. "That's great. I can help you study if you'd like."

Bright cringes. "I don't think it's the type of test you study for."

"Nonsense. You can always prepare yourself for a test." 

As he sits at the kitchen table, a short story about some girl's birthday his dad printed out for him to read along with lined paper for him to write an essay on, Bright regrets every choice that placed him here. Colin invited him to the movies, but his dad turned down the offer on his behalf, and it's super lame. Bright scans the story, scribbles down a few sentences, makes himself a sandwich, and stews in how utterly lame this entire thing is. 

"Bright!" There's a skip in Harold's step as he reenters the room. He waves his fingers before cracking his knuckles and pulling out a chair. "Let's see what you have."

Bright watches his dad scan the paragraph he's written down, face falling. "Am I done now?" he asks.

"You just wasted my time, as well as your own. If you weren't going to take this seriously you should have said so before I went through all this trouble." He throws the paper down, scrapes the chair against the floor and storms off. 

Bright's shoulders sag, and he feels kind of lame now, too. 

 

He knows he shouldn't be surprised when his father all but calls him stupid, because all the signs have been there. But he is, which maybe gives even more credence to his dad's point.

But the thing is, after Colin's accident, after Colin's miraculous recovery, after losing Colin for what feels like the third time instead of the second, Bright changed. He can feel it. He'd still be fine coasting on his athletic abilities and good looks, because, _come on_ , but he's not willing to use Colin as an excuse. He's not going to tarnish his best friend's memory because he failed a class he could have passed. Maybe there'd be some truth to the excuse: lack of focus and ability to sleep through the night, but he knows it isn't true enough.

 

When Harold comes down the stairs, slowing at the living room entrance, Bright sits up from where he's lying on the sofa. The Saturday morning cartoons aren't making him feel better like they usually do. "Hey."

His dad hesitates, crosses and uncrosses his arms before sitting perpendicular to Bright. "I think we should discuss what ... transpired yesterday."

"What's there to talk about?"

"I didn't mean what I said."

"Yes, you did," Bright answers. "You just didn't mean to say it."

His dad sighs. "Bright, everyone has different talents. Academics aren't your strong suit."

"And do you know why that is?"

Harold opens his mouth, but he doesn't say anything. Bright hears the echo from yesterday: _Because you're not smart enough_.

"Maybe it's because you never let me think I could be smart, Dad. It's like, no duh, I'm not as smart as Amy. But just because you've been convinced she's a genius bound for Princeton since she could crawl, it doesn't mean I'm an idiot." Bright's voice cracks, and he shakes his head. "Why would I ever try when I know you don't think I can do it, anyway? Why set myself up to be disappointed?"

"You can't let fear of failure keep you from trying, Bright."

"I'm not talking about begin disappointed in myself. I'm talking about being disappointed in you."

His father frowns and his brow furrows. He clasps his hands together between his knees, and Bright has seen his dad apologize enough times to know when there's genuine regret and guilt in his eyes. "In me?""

"You're never going to be proud of anything I do in school. I stopped trying to make it happen." Bright shrugs and looks at the floor. 

The silence stretches longer than he wants, filled only by _The Anamaniacs_ theme song. Bright sighs and looks up, ready to head upstairs and attempt another hour of sleep. He feels better having said something, but he doesn't want to hold his breath waiting for his father to make up for years of making him feel stupid - because in hindsight, that's true, too. Even if Bright didn't think about it or recognize it at the time. 

He pushes himself halfway off the sofa when he dad speaks: "I'm sorry."

"Okay." Bright flops back down.

"You're right. I've underestimated you, and I haven't encouraged you properly or given you the tools to succeed in school like I have for your sister. I have failed you as a parent, and I'm sorry. But you have to know it wasn't intentional."

"I do," Bright says. He knows that. He knows that his dad loves him. 

"You're so good at sports, in a way that I never was."

"So, you're like a stage mom?"

His father laughs, and Bright feels the tension in his shoulders relax. "No, not like a stage mom. I just wanted you to take advantage of your talents, but I neglected any talent that might not be as obvious. I hope one day you can forgive me."

"I forgive you." He shrugs and stands up. "Thanks." 

He was right: his dad's apology didn't magically erase all the damage that had been done, but it was a start. He taps him on the shoulder and finishes: "If you want me to give you some tips on layups, I can probably move some things around this afternoon." 

He can hear his dad's laugh as he jogs up the stairs, deciding to at least attempt a problem from his math homework before taking a nap.

**Author's Note:**

> Happy Yuletide! I hope you enjoyed this and you have a great day/holiday <3


End file.
